


Subtle Observations

by AnnaBolena



Series: These Years Spent in Paris [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Courfeyrac and Enjolras take a little trip, Friendship is Very Important, Geneva, July 1825, We all need more Courfeyrac & Enjolras Friendship, okay??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 10:43:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19130422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaBolena/pseuds/AnnaBolena
Summary: “I have a friend…” he begins, after intense deliberation. “He greatly enjoys flowers. I am sure he would love to hear all about this language, though I wonder if he would not laugh at me for bringing it up.”“Oh? Have I heard of this friend, perhaps?”Courfeyrac is very familiar with the subtle strategy his sister is attempting to employ: pretending to be more interested in the letter she is writing than Enjolras’ answer. It must be painfully transparent to everyone in the room, but Enjolras takes the bait.“I think I must have mentioned him in my letters to you on occasion.”a.k.a. Two and a half Scenes in Geneva





	Subtle Observations

**17 th July 1825 – Geneva, Swiss Confederation**

Courfeyrac’s first serious clue that Enjolras’ fascination with the much talked about Monsieur Grantaire extends past merely being intrigued is that when he makes his way into their gracious host’s kitchen, Enjolras is sitting at the table with Élodie, smiling as he listens to her go on about the contents of the letter bearing the latest news from London. That is to say, more precisely, his suspicion is raised by their conversation, the events of which proceed as follows:

He can only vaguely make them out, their faces are partly obscured from this angle, for he has stopped short at the top of the stairs, waiting to see where this conversation may lead so that he may join it at the most opportune moment.

Since they left Paris three days ago – privately toasting to the anniversary of the Bastille’s fall in some dingy tavern on the road, at which Élodie was granted a cup of her own, to her tremendous delight, after having been sworn not to breathe a word of it to their parents – they have fallen into a comfortable routine. In the mornings they take breakfast together. Courfeyrac usually rises early, but today he has languished in bed longer than is his habit, for he rather exerted himself last night. Élodie is habitually abed much longer than a respectable lady should be. That first day she had appeared downstairs without a corset and with her hair entirely unbound and had earned herself a loud scolding by the landlady.

(“To appear thus in front of a man who is not her brother, Monsieur Courfeyrac, it is really unfathomable! If word of this should get out her reputation will be quite in tatters!”

“Calm yourself, Madame Virchow. Monsieur Enjolras is as much brother to Élodie as I am.”

“You may see it thus, but does he?”

“You have only known him for a day, I suppose. Come tomorrow I am sure he will have convinced you that his intentions are never anything but honorable.”

“See to it that he does, Monsieur, or I will have to relay the incident to the young lady’s parents,” their landlady had huffed when she had sought him out yesterday evening. What had followed was something at least equally scandalous, but Courfeyrac had not felt beholden to point out the slight hypocrisy.)

After breakfast someone will suggest a destination for the day. At Enjolras’ suggestion they had visited the University and passed half the day in the library. Élodie’s choice had been a day trip of hiking, which had nearly made their landlady splutter once more. It had required no small amount of gentle coaxing on Courfeyrac’s part to assure her that yes, Élodie would be chaperoned. Enjolras had spent the day glaring angrily at their landlady. To be certain he is too polite by half to verbally reprimand her, but Courfeyrac thinks he must be sorely tempted on such occasions.

In the evening, Élodie enjoys the company of their landlady’s daughter, while Enjolras and Courfeyrac visit rather more controversial cafés. There are many fascinating conversations to be had in Geneva. Courfeyrac watches Enjolras debate old and young men alike and wonders if they should not start doing so in Paris – with caution, of course.

Their easy rapport feels almost as it did in the years before Courfeyrac left for Paris. But that is not truly the case, it is just that the three of them have not been together in so long that his mind automatically leaps to draw comparisons.

Enjolras has started breathing more easily, no matter that he now wears restrictive bindings beneath his clothes on many an occasion. He is a liberated man, where this time last year he was still chafing horridly under the yoke of his father. It is wonderful to see him laugh more often, to see him engage in repartee where a year ago he would have frowned and steered conversation immediately back to topics he deemed more important. Courfeyrac sometimes had a notion that his friend was afraid to allow himself to laugh too often out of some misguided thought that it would mean he would settle beneath his father’s hand after all. Now, at long last, Enjolras seems wholly sure of himself.

In part it is Paris and her work, to be sure, but the company also brings it out in him.

Élodie says: “…She sent me a recount of a most wonderful trend she became familiar with after she joined her father in London – it is quite ingenious, you will see, something inspired by the Ottoman court, of all things.”

“A step towards overcoming the barriers of the world, then, I suppose?” Enjolras quips, smiling indulgently at Élodie as he blows on his cup of coffee; another phenomenon inspired by that faraway place, one which half of France has adopted with open hearts.

Élodie scrunches up her nose.

“Not at all – rather it is a matter of prohibiting nosy parents from overcoming the barriers towards their progeny’s private matters of the heart.”

“Is that so?”

“They have modified the language of flowers for their own usage – have you heard of it?”

“I cannot say that I have, no,” Enjolras rests his head on one hand, the other hand busy making very deliberate notes in his lecture.

Élodie stops whatever reply she is currently penning to laugh at Enjolras. “No, I don’t imagine you, of all people, would be interested in it. Never you mind, I shall only bore you.”

“If it truly is so fascinating to you I do not mind being told more.”

“You are too indulgent of my ramblings by far. Are you aware of that? If you continue to let me speak my mind I shall very soon convince myself that I am genuinely entitled to my own opinions.”

“Hardly possible to consider that a failing on my part,” Enjolras pauses his writing. “Out with it, Élodie: What is this language that has captured your interest?”

“It requires some explanation. Suppose I am a young man wishing to court a young lady that has bewitched me, but I do not wish for her parents to know, so that they may not devise a plan to thwart our inevitable love match.”

“Why do her parents disapprove of you, in this scenario?”

“Because in this scenario I imagine I am rather like one of my dear brothers, the one that actually knows women exist.”

Courfeyrac does not need to see Enjolras roll his eyes to know he has done so; Élodie’s giggle is enough of a confirmation. Between the two of them, Élodie is far better at teasing Enjolras – and contrary to Courfeyrac, she can do so in a manner that merely amuses Enjolras rather than evoking the accompanying annoyance. She has never needed to apologize to Enjolras for speaking out of turn, not in years.

“I am fully aware of women.”

“‘ _indifferent towards’_ is the more accurate phrasing,” Élodie laughs, “In any case, I wish to let this Mademoiselle know of my affections, but I cannot get a word in private with her, and I should hate to make a public declaration – that hardly guarantees secrecy, does it, which was the whole aim of my scheme, was it not? – and you can only fill up so many slots on her dance card to whisper in her ear as you thrill in the intimacy of the _near-touch_ …”

“This is a very elaborate scenario you have come up with, Élodie.”

“Am I not creative? I slip the Mademoiselle a nice flower, say, perhaps a red carnation to symbolize my affection. She might in return send me a mimosa to signal that she wishes to remain chaste until marriage. There are myriad books serving as dictionaries now, it is really quite fascinating. So many things might be expressed to someone via flowers. Apparently my friend was told that a young man who had been showing interest was disappointed in her, all through a flower. Imagine a flower to tell someone you consider them morally reprehensible! Imagine a flower confessing to someone you care only for them! It is all possible, thanks to this.”

Enjolras seems to ponder this for a while.

“I have a friend…” he begins, after intense deliberation. “He greatly enjoys flowers. I am sure he would love to hear all about this language, though I wonder if he would not laugh at me for bringing it up.”

“Oh? Have I heard of this friend, perhaps?”

Courfeyrac is very familiar with the subtle strategy his sister is attempting to employ: pretending to be more interested in the letter she is writing than Enjolras’ answer. It must be painfully transparent to everyone in the room, but Enjolras takes the bait.

“I think I must have mentioned him in my letters to you on occasion.”

“ _Oh_.”

He cannot mean anyone but Grantaire. To be sure, there is Bahorel, but Courfeyrac is reminded of an evening when Enjolras came home talking about how Grantaire stopped their promenade every three steps to admire some flower or other. Bahorel has a taste for all things beautiful, but it is not so cultivated that he would stop to admire flowers. His preference is more flesh than botany.

That, more than anything, gives Courfeyrac pause, for Enjolras certainly speaks to him of Grantaire frequently, mostly to vent his admiration, cleverly disguising it as frustration. What cause might he possibly have to write Élodie of him?

“I do not think I have ever taken coffee before,” Élodie continues. She pauses her letter once more, sits up straighter. As far as changes in subject go, this one is of poor form. Judging from Enjolras’ previous silence, it is welcome though, for now he jumps at the opportunity handed to him.

“Would you care to have a taste?”

“Felix tells me it tastes of the devil,” Élodie sounds rather reluctant. Courfeyrac makes an admirable effort of stifling his laughter.

“Courfeyrac is not wrong where that is concerned; it is very bitter when taken pure. But I think he must have been having you on. Do you know he takes his cup half filled with honey? It is closer to molasses than coffee. To be sure his teeth will rot before very long.”

“That would quite prove a mortal blow to his vanity, would it not? He so relies on his charming smile.”

Élodie reaches across the table to accept Enjolras’ cup. Courfeyrac supposes this is as good a time as any to come ambling down the stairs with great racket.

“Drinking the Moorish poison, dear sister? How disappointed our parents shall be when they find you out! Your breath will be tainted beyond belief, so that no man should ever like to take you for a wife!”

“What if my husband should also enjoy the taste of coffee?”

“Sweet sister, you must know by now that men, the sum total of them, are hypocritical swine,” Courfeyrac kisses the top of her head gently to greet her. “They will condemn you for the very same vice they partake in day after day.”

“Then I suppose I will not take a husband,” Élodie sighs.

“Jolly good, that,” Enjolras nods approvingly, trailing his finger over the page he must have been reading before Élodie rose to join him. He addresses Courfeyrac: “Madame Virchow was looking for you earlier. She has gone to the market but bids you hurry to catch up.”

“I know quite what Madame Virchow wants of me, but she will have trouble acquiring it at the market,” Courfeyrac snorts. Élodie frowns at him, glances at Enjolras’ matching expression of disapproval before she then seems to catch on.

“You are a cad, brother. I cannot believe you aim to seduce our landlady.”

Courfeyrac need not aim, he already succeeded last night and the night before, but there is no use making those two aware of it.

“Drink your coffee, darling girl, and worry not about what sins your brother commits in the name of pleasure,” Courfeyrac grins, “I, it would seem, am off to the market. Enjolras, my good chap, you ought to be proud of me. This time my pursuit is of a widowed woman! You might call that halfway decent.”

“I shall call it decent if you make an honest woman out of her,” Enjolras retorts.

“You only say that to set a moral example for the youthful rose in our charge, I know you do not mean it and so I shall not even pretend to be offended.”

As he leaves he can hear Élodie have a sip, proclaiming: “Oh, suffering Christ! That really is awfully bitter.”

“Perhaps take your chance with the honey?” Enjolras’ response is the last he hears before he steps into the sunlight, his thoughts turning away from Monsieur Grantaire to a certain Madame awaiting his attentions.

+

That evening Enjolras accompanies him on a walk through the streets just as the sun begins to set. Élodie has been invited to dine with a family friend, an invitation Courfeyrac had to decline with some regret – a few years ago he seduced their son. Today, said son is attending the dinner with his new wife, so Courfeyrac thinks it decent of him to spare the man from any potential embarrassment. It is just as well, as Enjolras had no intention of accompanying them and thus they are afforded some time to talk.

“I cannot help but think of 1782 when we walk through these streets,” Enjolras admits, rather wistfully. “Though they speak French here I wonder at their opinion of us.”

“They would first have to make us as Frenchmen, would they not? I dare say my accent has adapted wonderfully to the change in scenery.”

“Your accent may have, but your clothes remain rather distinctively Parisian. I did not even know you have a tailor here, but you have convinced him to clothe you in our foreign fashions nonetheless.”

“An old friend,” Courfeyrac shrugs, “And I was in need of a new waistcoat. He said he would be quite happy to fashion that red one you ogled, without having to take your measurements, if you decide you wish to buy it after all instead of merely flirting with the idea of it.”

“I have not the money to purchase such a thing and before you suggest it, I could not possibly accept it as a gift. Already I must be about a year’s worth of money indebted to you, nor is it near enough my birthday to warrant it.”

“Debt repaid easily by seeing you happy,” Courfeyrac shrugs. “These months in Paris have transformed you, if you will allow me to make the comment.”

“Changed for the better, I hope?”

“From what I can tell.” Courfeyrac interlinks their arms. “You smile more than you used to, for one. I am very glad to see it. Ah, there it is now! Wonderful, as I have said.”

“You have admirably changed the topic, Courfeyrac.”

“Supposing you mean to delve deeper into 1782, I admit I am not so well-versed in that particular history. I know only what limited accounts I heard from some of the old men in the cafés we have patronized. There does not seem to be much of a revolutionary spirit here, much less an organized one, which is not at all surprising, considering how repeatedly it was crushed in the last half century.”

“Betrayed by their fellow men,” Enjolras laments, “How horrible a thing that must be.”

“It is the habit of those well-off to feel threatened by those rising up for a more just world. You will find that over the course of history, time after time, revolutions have been betrayed by those that benefitted, even covertly, from the existing system, or merely did not feel the sting of it so keenly. Universal change is a hard if admirable thing to bring about, as opposed to personal change.”

Enjolras nods his agreement. “That some men feel no shame betraying the wretched for the chance of their own gain baffles me still.”

“I should rather say it makes you angry.”

“That as well, yes,” Enjolras nods. “But I think I would be much more lenient if I could understand their motivations. Fear of radical devolvement or not, betrayal of progress is not warranted in any case I have come across, though Grantaire would now offer the continuous elimination of the National Assemblies’ factions in 93 as counterpoint to my argument. And yet I wonder – did they not also betray their country first, betray their people? I admire much of Danton’s work, I admire Desmoulins, as you well know, but can you deny that they sought to halt the revolution, slowed it down when it needed to be accelerated, even if their intentions were not treason? What else might those remaining around Robespierre have done, with the Vendée in disarray and enemies of the Republic encroaching from the borders?”

“Do you suppose--” Courfeyrac stops, lowers his voice, leans in closer. They may be in a foreign city, but even so he should not wish to be overheard. Even in a foreign country their conversation would raise suspicions. “Do you suppose that is something France might have to contend with once more, in the event of an uprising? To be sure such disruptions do not come about without internal disharmony. If every faction pulled in the same direction foreign leaders would have no room to intercede. Would that the interests of the people were shared genuinely by more than one old general! But now, what say you to the possibility of armed conflict which extends past the streets of Paris? Do you truly consider that likely? I cannot fathom which Lord or Dominion shall be asked to send troops in support of the Monarchy, after the Emperor alienated so many.”

“The Emperor is gone, has been gone, and in my experience royal memories are short,” Enjolras shrugs. “I spoke to Grantaire of this once – he referred me to the Congress of Vienna and insisted that despite their inconsequential border disagreements half the surrounding realms would swiftly rush to maintain France’s status quo in such an event. The very fabric of Europe as we know it depends on it. Set one country out of balance and a tear will develop that will spread throughout the entire continent. Already there are a few holes being poked in various, scattered places - take the Wartburg, for one - facilitating the destruction such an event would bring. You ought to have heard Grantaire tell it, it was a marvelous analysis. I would have been overjoyed to bear witness to it had he not ended the whole rant with a resounding condemnation of any and all revolutionary fervor. A Sisyphean struggle, he called my ambitions, telling me I would one day be crushed beneath the weight of the rock I thought to move. Of course, as he was not entirely sober that led to a second likening to Atlas. He is quite prone to jump wildly from one analogy to the next.”

“There is some sense to his argument,” Courfeyrac concedes. “France hardly enjoyed warm relations with Europe last century and yet they rushed to defend the monarchy when it was threatened, with no familial obligations to speak of. But do you not think Grantaire to be a touch too pessimistic?”

“Unbearably cynical, you mean? Yes, quite. That is one of his more infuriating qualities. He would make a fine revolutionary if he could be convinced to fight. Bahorel told me he did fight, once. I wonder often what must have happened to leave him in such a state, though he remains rather obstinately closed off to discussions on the topic of himself. I fear I am no better, so I really ought not to judge him too harshly, but I cannot help it sometimes.”

The opportunity to address his observations is thus presented on a silver platter. Courfeyrac seizes the moment. “I was surprised to learn you mentioned Grantaire to Élodie. You do not usually speak to her of your friends. I was of the opinion that the letters exchanged between the two of you were strictly academic.”

The question seems to take Enjolras aback, briefly, before the man is miraculously composed once more. But in that fraction of a second Courfeyrac sees enough to be surprised by how much he sees.

“He must have come up once or twice, even if the content of the letters had been purely academic. But Élodie is dear to me as if she were my own sister, so naturally I write to her of other things as well. You may have noticed Grantaire has shown up in our lives increasingly often in recent months, most frequently because you continue to invite him to dinner whenever you run into him on the street.”

“Ha! If it were only that you would not see him half as much as you do! You seek him out under dubious pretenses of wishing to debate, only to come home worked up because he will not agree with you.”

“Yes, I do seek him out. Is there a reason for your inquisition tonight? If I had known you meant to do so I would not have agreed to join you, this is really quite bothersome. Speak plainly or hold your tongue on the matter.”

“I apologize – contrary to popular belief I know not to test the limits of your comfort beyond reason. It merely surprised me that he came up in the context of flower language. Your mind seemed immediately to jump to him. As a matter of fact, your mind seems to jump to him on most subjects, considering how often he comes up in conversation. You would think him walking by our side, so thoroughly am I informed of his opinions.”

“How long were you listening at the top of the stairs?”

“Not too long,” Courfeyrac waves a dismissive hand. “It was rude of me to do so, I know. Do you have an answer for me?”

“Not a satisfying one, I am afraid. I enjoy Grantaire’s company. I am sure I have told you as much when you ask me why I continue to call on him despite my rather obvious frustration.”

There is plenty Enjolras is not saying, but it is plain to see to Courfeyrac’s eyes what is hidden behind his vague declarations.

“You mean to continue to pursue him as you have, then?”

Enjolras pauses his stride mid-step, frowning thoughtfully. “It has been under consideration. As you might suspect I am unsure how to go about the matter. I have no experience to speak of.”

Courfeyrac is rather aware that he is frowning as well now. It is not lost on Enjolras.

“You disapprove, I presume? You look wary, my friend. I cannot fathom why you would.”

“Do you suppose Grantaire is the kind of person that can be trusted to handle your situation delicately? To be sure he is a formidable debate partner, but his vices are plentiful and his tongue turns loose when plied with drink.”

“You judge the man rather harshly considering you can be seen to imbibe with some regularity yourself.”

“Never do I partake in so much that I am entirely out of sorts, whereas he is hardly ever sober, it seems to me.” Courfeyrac hastens to defend himself, “have I given you reasonable cause to doubt my sincerity?”

“No,” Enjolras assures. “But then again, neither has Grantaire. I do not understand, Courfeyrac. It was you who introduced us, was it not? You are not so thick that you could have missed my growing feelings towards him – I must have gone on about the man I met in the carriage for days before I could be made to shut up about him. You could have simply not invited him to dine with us, but instead you engineered a whole evening so that we may get to know one another after all. If you are of the opinion that he is so awful, why on earth would you do such a thing?”

“I did not say he was awful – rather the contrary, I quite enjoy him, he is a witty man and well-versed in many topics, a good friend to have if you wish to be entertained and stimulated intellectually. But you have kept your secret for many years. My friend, to put it as plainly as you asked me to: I wonder whether perhaps for the first time in your life you are allowing your heart to willfully mislead you.”

Enjolras’ frown deepens. There is a wrinkle between his brows, entirely vertical; a rather obvious indication of contemplation and confusion alike.

“Nothing is decided yet. If you believe I would simply dive in without assuring myself of him you have misjudged me gravely. I would not simply take up with him because I have developed some affection. Those feelings would turn out to be most inconsequential if it should come to light that he would be dishonorable about my situation.”

“Sensible,” Courfeyrac agrees reluctantly. He ought to have known. It would be entirely unlike Enjolras to blindly surge ahead.

“But I was not aware you had a vote in deciding whom I divulge the nature of my situation to, Courfeyrac.”

“No, of course I do not,” Courfeyrac makes as much of a retreat as is possible after you have unintentionally insulted a friend, “Your private business is yours; and it is yours alone. I overstepped, it was not my intention to meddle. Forgive me, I beg of you. It was merely concern that led me to be so rude.”

Enjolras is a master at the condemning arch of a brow, but it softens at the apology.

“I am grateful to you for everything you have done for me over the years. But I will not suffer your foray into my affairs in such a matter. I allow you your liaisons without complaint, do I not?”

“Point taken, dear friend, but might I point out that you merely allow my liaisons to pass with _some_ complaint? Just this morning, there were complaints issued.”

“That is a fair accusation, I suppose,” Enjolras relents. They find themselves smiling. “Perhaps that is the natural consequence of having known each other for so long. We are both rather invested in one another’s happiness. I apologize if my disapproval has upset you.”

“Few things of personal nature upset me, I reserve my pain for the wretched masses suffering in France,” Courfeyrac muses. “Condemnation of my bedroom habits is a badge of honor, as far as I am concerned. I wear it with pride.”

“Perhaps we ought to commission one for you. What say you to a metal plate with inlay?”

“Charming,” Courfeyrac agrees. “I suppose I could pin it to my hat?”

Enjolras’ skeptical face wrings another laugh out of the both of them; at last they are able to continue their walk amicably.

+

When Courfeyrac comes down the stairs two mornings later, Madame Virchow is reading to Élodie and her young daughter from a book that turns out to be _Floral Emblems_ , by some British author or other. Courfeyrac listens for a while before he cannot hold his amusement in any longer, wondering at how this reading came to be.

“Enjolras acquired it for me yesterday!” Élodie gushes, displaying the thing proudly after she has allowed Courfeyrac to kiss the top of her head. Her face is aglow with happiness, her cheeks flushed. “You will have to work very hard to catch up with him in my esteem now, I am afraid his attentiveness has yours beat.”

"Easily remedied by telling you that it was your darling brother who facilitated the trip to Geneva in the first place."

"That is indeed a good point," Élodie taps her cheek contemplatingly. "I suppose each of you boasts a fair amount of virtues." 

Enjolras, for his part, is making markings on an extra sheet of paper wedged inconspicuously between the pages of his lecture. Courfeyrac is rather certain that they have nothing at all to do with political theory.

He will make no comment on that. But perhaps in the next few months he will keep Grantaire close and gather a more encompassing opinion of him.

**Author's Note:**

> Historical Context:  
> -Flower language is a very varied thing and most flowers have circled through more than one meaning. Those mentioned are simply the ones I thought most fitting for the story. Also yes, it was popularized in the Ottoman Empire and initially brought back to England in 1717, if I have my history correct.  
> -The 1782 Enjolras is referring to is the failed Revolution of Geneva to break away from France's control. It joined the Swiss Federation after Napoleon, before that it was briefly a Republic. (That is to say, they were a Republic for ~250 years because of John Calvin, stopped being a republic in 1798, then were a Republic again from 1813-185)  
> You can see why Enjolras would like their history. But as it happened with nearly every Revolution: the conservative force allied with the liberal force against the radical faction out of fear of being overrun and thus violence was begotten.  
> -The Congress of Vienna in 1815 was a Meeting of Europe's Monarchs to discuss what would happen in post-napoleonic Europe. A very reactionary course of politics was decided on and it led to the formation of conservative alliances that tried to insure no Revolution would be successful under their watchful eyes. It also led to one of my fave history quotes: "The King of Württemberg eats enough for everyone, the King of Bavaria drinks enough for everyone, and the Tsar of Russia makes enough love for everyone." Many weeks were spent celebrating rather than actually negotiating.  
> -The Wartburg Fest in 1817 was to celebrate 300 years of Martin Luther's Reformation (which eventually led to the tender possibility of religious freedom ca 1550s). The celebration was mostly held by Students of different reforming ideals. It wasn't well received by the reigning authority, needless to say. It lead to super oppressive laws being introduced across most of the German States, concerning freedom of the press etc.  
> -The 'familial obligations' jibe from Courfeyrac concerns Marie Antoinette's brother, then Ruler of Austria and Holy Roman Emperor, I think, who also rushed to attack the Republic.


End file.
